


It's a Sunday

by kingLATRANS



Series: What a Week [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:35:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingLATRANS/pseuds/kingLATRANS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Sunday, and Stiles is stuck at home because Werewolves.</p>
<p>Of course an unexpected visit from Scott could absolutely make things more interesting.</p>
<p>Also maybe a tiny bit worrying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> First post on here, second fic i've started for Teen Wolf, as well as the second fic i've ever written. Frankie has successfully convinced me to put this up so, thanks loser
> 
> It was also written a couple days before Halloween after S2, so it's not the newest but it is the only thing i've got finished
> 
> I hope you like it! If not, tell me why and i'll put it toward my future writing

“It’s a Sunday. Sundays are nice. I dunno, maybe it’s then idle feeling of imminent _doom_.” However ridiculous it may sound, it’s still relieving and calming. Yet nerve wracking at the same time. Stiles clicks his tongue, his back to the bed, arms spread out, and fingers put to work with bored, itchy tapping even though the bedding offers no noise.

“It’s a Sunday, and it’s completely normal to feel like it’s the end of the world.” He sighs heavily then makes a weak debating noise. “It’s Monday tomorrow. Forgot.” He figuratively vaults himself out of bed then promptly trips over his own feet literally. “Ah, shit.” He bites out, letting himself collapse onto the carpeting. His elbows feeling raw- “Ow, fuck-ah,” The sound of air being sucked in through his teeth is sodden with over exaggerated agony. “That is, indeed, rug burn, shiiit.” Rug burns hurt like a bitch. They are the worst possible things. Aside from dying. Comes in a close second, though. It stings really badly. But he can’t stop prodding at it. Like pressing bruises and picking scabs. “Ouch. Dammit. This stings,” he hisses.

Being alone in your house on a Sunday evening watching the sun go down, it leaves much to be desired in the entertainment segment of Stiles Stilinski: A Day in the Life. So yes, Stiles has been talking to himself for well over maybe three hours. Perhaps all day. Not that he’ll say. To anyone. Like, ever. “Well, tomorrow _is_ Monday.” He argues with himself about the worth of this situation before easing up to his hands and knees, wincing as he goes. He grumbles about stupid werewolves and their stupid adventures with stupid rules as he crawls over to his backpack.

“It’s a Sunday. Tomorrows a Monday. Effort suuucks.” The action of unzipping his bag shifts his skin around, and then there was pain. “Ah, this is like Dante’s Inferno,” He cries. “The deepest ring of hell is reserved for poor innocent children who are left at home all alone by selfish ingrates without any company or protection from falling elbow first onto carpets.” Some more highly pathetic noises later and he’s pulling some books out. But of course, when Stiles is just beginning to accept the fate of his boring life, halfway to a standing position, when his birthday wish for an eventful happening including him is granted.

The demanding noise of his window being pried open could only come from Scott. Scott and his lackluster silence. It’s partially relieving in some odd way. Stiles is looking through the pages of his History book, wondering if death had been this noticeable before the enlightenment of werewolves, when he speaks.

“Scotty!” He says in an indulgent tone, smirking slightly. “Did Allison throw a Milkbone this way? Or has my place been officially declared The Dog House?” He continues flipping through the pages, cackling some, until the silence is too much. It’s nearly deafening…… Someone’s obviously been running a marathon or is actually dying, from the sounds of the breathing. But silence isn’t Scott’s thing. Like, mouth silence. Silence of word. His smug look is falling, bit by bit. So, unless this is actually Derek…

“Hey-“

Aaand there’s blood. It _is_ Scott. Breathing laborious, shirt tattered. He looks in violent disarray. And yes, blood. Dark, reddish, thick, nasty blood. Even after this long, blood is still not on mutually good terms with Stiles. Blood is to Stiles as Consequence is to Teenager. You don’t ever want it around, but it keeps coming back no matter how far you throw the bone. Speaking of trouble, there are some wounds that are still healing, not slow enough to be from an Alpha, but… yeah. They aren’t too bad looking, but the blood. Stiles can feel his eyes go wide and his jaw drop. The book sags in his hands, grip loosening. If he could focus on it, he might be able to feel the blood retract from his skin and bury itself inside of him. He might be able to feel all the hair over his neck stand on end, the chill that steadily climbs up his spine faster and faster until it collides with his cerebellum. He might actually feel the way he sways and shakes. The fog of hot and cold intertwining, dissipating under his scalp and the skin of his shoulders.

“Scott, what’s wrong. What happened.”


End file.
